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there was plenty of bad news to ignore.
    â€œCriminals? I only saw one, and he hired me.”
    â€œA producer, in other words.”
    â€œMy lips are sealed. Professional confidence.”
    â€œPerhaps they will unseal once you’ve had one of these.” He handed me a tall frosted glass. It was a gin and tonic. Or at least there may have been some tonic clinging desperately to one or two of the ice cubes, but if so the gin didn’t seem to notice it, nor did I.
    I blinked a time or two as I swallowed, thinking that a gin and tonic without the tonic ought to be called something else. And then I noticed yet another writer emerging from his bungalow. He was coming down the Spanish-tiled steps from one of the upstairs apartments. He was a recent arrival to the Garden, but I recognized him: I had met him several months ago at Thalberg’s party—the same party where I’d met Manny Stairs. At that party, he’d been playing the pianoand singing a comic song about a dog and believing that he was entertaining the crowd when in fact he was annoying them so thoroughly that when he finished, they booed him. The air had gone out of him in an instant and he’d seemed to shrink right there, and he wasn’t that big a man to begin with—maybe five-seven or so in his shoes. I remember asking Ethel who he was, and she said “Him? Nobody. Just a writer.”
    As an aside, Ethel’s attitude was pervasive among the producing class, and that was yet another reason why the overpaid writers hated themselves for staying. In New York or London, a writer was “somebody”; not here, though. One big-time producer called them “schmucks with Underwoods.” Anyway, I’d felt sorry for the guy for making such a fool of himself, and when the disapproving crowd had dispersed I’d gone up and introduced myself and said I’d enjoyed his song, although I hadn’t, particularly. He’d smiled sort of wanly and told me his name. Turned out he’d been a famous writer back in the twenties—made all sorts of money, but then lost most of it through too many parties, too much travel, and the other usual culprits. He’d thought the party would never end, but it had for him, around the time of the Crash. Now, a few years later, he was here trying to repair his fortunes in the movie business. He didn’t seem all that old: possibly not even forty, maybe a bit older, although it was hard to tell. His wife, apparently, was difficult. That was not a unique situation in this town.
    More importantly, he was the one who had given me the idea that I’d used with the Youngstown money-laundering sting operation. He had worked the whole thing out as a scenario in one of his books; and at that party, when I’d told him I had actually read his books, he became very chummy.No surprise there. When I asked him what he was working on just then, he spilled his whole story—after learning that I was not a writer, aspiring or otherwise.
    Some months had passed since that party, and I felt pretty sure he wouldn’t remember me, but I was wrong. He came straight up to me, smiling, and held out his hand.
    â€œYou’re the actor with the funny name. We met at Thalberg’s.”
    â€œActually, now I’m the private detective with the funny name. My acting career died shortly after birth, unlamented by all.”
    He nodded. “Wise decision. This business is no place for adults, unless you’re on the money side. How about a drink?”
    â€œSure.” Mine was about gone by then. We went over to the bar and poured two more gins and then sat down at one of the poolside tables.
    â€œDid you ever make that movie about the money-laundering scheme?” I asked.
    He grimaced. “You remember that, eh? No. It never got past the treatment stage. Too bad. I thought it could work.”
    I was tempted to tell him that it did work—so tempted, in fact, that